The morning sun broke through the mist, painting the fields in soft gold. Riaan stood near the river, hands clasped behind his back. His eyes followed the current as it curved toward the village, the lifeline of their survival. Today, he had set his mind on water—how to manage it better, how to make it serve the people instead of burdening them.

He gathered the villagers in the square. “We depend too much on the river,” he began. “But what if the river is far? What if you need water at night, or during a flood? We will dig wells here, inside the village. We will also guide the river water into channels, so the fields drink evenly.”

There was murmuring. Some adults exchanged doubtful glances, but the children’s faces brightened. Fetching water daily was a tiresome chore for them.

Riaan crouched and drew a rough sketch on the dirt. “A rope, a bucket, and a lever. Simple. Anyone can use it. Even a child.”

Work began soon after. Adults took shovels, while children carried baskets to clear away loose soil. Riaan moved among them, correcting angles, showing where to brace the walls of the pit with wooden supports.

By midday, sweat dripped from every brow. Then came the cheer—a sudden gush of clear water pooled at the bottom of the freshly dug hole. The villagers clapped, laughter breaking the monotony of labor. Riaan lowered a bucket tied to a rope, raised it with a wooden lever, and poured the first clean splash into a clay jar.

“Water in the heart of the village,” he said, smiling. “No more long walks to the river.”

Hope flickered across weary faces.

They spent the afternoon carving shallow trenches from the riverbank to the fields. The children followed the flow with excitement, watching water trickle and branch, soaking the earth where crops grew thin before.

As villagers tested the new channels, a faint rattling reached their ears. A wooden cart creaked along the main path, pulled by a sturdy ox. A broad-shouldered man with a sun-hardened face called out, “Ho there! Anyone willing to trade?”

Heads turned. A **merchant from the neighboring city** had arrived. His cart brimmed with bolts of cloth, jars of spices, polished tools, and trinkets that gleamed in the sunlight. But his eyes did not linger on his goods. Instead, he slowed, gaze sweeping across the village.

He climbed down, dusting his hands. “By the gods… is this the same village I passed two summers ago?” His tone carried disbelief. “Clean paths, organized fields, wells in the center? You even have irrigation channels?”

Villagers looked at one another, unsure how to answer. Riaan stepped forward, wiping his hands. “We’ve been making changes,” he said simply.

The merchant studied him with keen interest. “Changes, you say? These are no small changes, boy. Most towns I visit lack half this order. What’s your secret?”

“Observation, patience, and trying again when we fail,” Riaan replied.

The merchant chuckled, scratching his beard. “If more villages worked like this, famine would starve fewer bellies, and merchants like me would travel with more ease. You’ve done something remarkable here.”

He wandered toward the new well, crouched, and ran a hand along the wooden lever. “Clever. Efficient. Even my city uses clumsier methods than this.”

A few villagers swelled with pride. Children whispered excitedly, while adults exchanged uncertain glances. Praise from an outsider carried weight.

The merchant returned to Riaan. “I deal in tools, cloth, herbs. But I also deal in news. If word spreads of what you’ve done here, traders will come more often. With trade comes wealth. But—” he leaned closer, lowering his voice— “with wealth comes envy. Others may not look kindly on a village that grows too fast.”

Riaan’s chest tightened. He had thought about this: outside attention could help, but it could also draw trouble. Still, he kept his tone calm. “For now, we want only stability. Let the villagers work, eat, and live better. Prosperity can wait.”

The merchant nodded slowly. “Wise words. But be careful—progress attracts eyes, whether you ask for it or not.”

He spent the rest of the afternoon chatting with villagers. Children crowded his cart, marveling at bright cloth and jars of strange powders. Women asked about needles, pots, and salt. Men examined knives and chisels. The merchant traded modestly—grain for cloth, soap for herbs—but all the while, he kept glancing at Riaan, curiosity sharp in his gaze.

At last, as the sun dipped toward the horizon, he packed his cart. “I will return,” he promised. “And I will bring others. Word of this place will not stay hidden.”

With a creak of wheels, he left down the dusty road. Silence followed him, the villagers watching until he disappeared behind the trees.

Elder Tarek, who had been skeptical of Riaan since the beginning, broke the quiet. “Even outsiders see what you are building,” he said slowly. His voice lacked its usual edge of doubt. “Perhaps this path you’ve chosen… is worth following.”

Riaan exhaled, relieved. Respect, once impossible, was slowly becoming real.

As night settled, he sat by the new well. Villagers carried buckets, children splashed each other with water, and for once, laughter outweighed worry. Yet Riaan’s thoughts lingered on the merchant’s words.

*Progress attracts eyes. And not all eyes are kind.*

Tomorrow, he would travel again to 5355. There was still much to learn. But for tonight, he let himself smile at the sound of water flowing, steady and clear.